Three Suspects
by Joodiff
Summary: Boyd has three likely suspects in mind - Mel, Frankie and Grace. Trouble is, he's not entirely sure which of his suspects is the guilty party... Complete. Enjoy! Happy birthday, CatS81!


**DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing.

**May 11th 2012 Happy Birthday, CatS81!**

* * *

**Three Suspects**

by Joodiff

* * *

He's fairly certain there are three likely suspects, and he is, after all, a senior and very experienced detective. There are no obvious clues to help narrow his focus, however. The envelope is plain and white, and his name surname only, he notices has been printed off on a self-adhesive label and stuck neatly on the front of it. He wonders whether testing for fingerprints or DNA would be productive, but even he, as head of the CCU, would have a hard time justifying the time and expense incurred. No, this is a conundrum to be solved the old-fashioned way, without resort to fancy modern tricks. He glares balefully at the infuriating envelope for a few more seconds before decisively sweeping it away into the top drawer of his desk. He doesn't need to look at the contents again the details are already firmly etched on his memory.

Someone not too far away is responsible, Boyd knows it. There are three clear suspects and a distinct possibility of collusion between two or more of them. Speculatively, he glances up, looking over the top of his reading glasses. The location of his office gives him a deliberately good view of the immediate area and for a moment or two he quietly and reflectively studies what he can see. Spencer is at his desk, head well down over whatever it is he's doing. Mel is standing with her back to the evidence board, telephone receiver clamped to her ear. Situation very normal. Boyd's head doesn't move, but his eyes track to the right. Grace is standing in the doorway of her office talking to Frankie. From what he can see, both women's expressions are earnest and their body language suggests that whatever they are discussing is a long, long way from trivial.

No obvious clues.

Mel. Frankie. Grace. Or a dangerous combination thereof. He has, of course, discounted Spencer, given the nature of the printed message inside the envelope.

This is most _definitely_ a wind-up.

But part of him is still intensely curious.

-oOo-

By mid-afternoon, Boyd has more-or-less grudgingly eliminated Mel entirely from his extremely short list of suspects. She's eminently capable of the kind of mischief required, no doubt about that, but even his exceedingly healthy male ego has to concede that of the unholy triumvirate she's the least likely culprit. Which is a shame, really, because she's a damned pretty girl. Young woman. Whatever. But she's still in her twenties and he's… not. Sadly, he can't actually really remember what it felt like to be that young, that full of energy and enthusiasm.

Frankie or Grace, then. Or both, of course.

He should ignore it. Of course he should. For a start, there's professional decorum and all that sort of bollocks to consider. And if _when_ it turns out to be a huge wind-up, he's going to look like a complete idiot if he –

"Boyd?" Grace says from his office doorway.

He looks up at her serenely. "Grace."

"Frankie wants us all in the lab something about the DNA results from the Rogerson case…?"

He can spot a conspiracy a mile off, and by the amused glint in her eye, Grace is well aware of it. She knows that he knows. About _this_, if not about _that_. But sometimes playing the game is expected, so Boyd merely nods and says, "Fine; you go, I'll be along in a few minutes."

Well, why not allow them a brief chance to gloat over just how clever they are?

-oOo-

He vetoed this weeks ago. Boyd knows damned well he did. Told them all loudly and in very plain English that he really didn't need to be reminded that yet another bloody year has raced past, thank-you-very-much. But there is still a large birthday cake waiting for him in the lab. Quite a good cake, too, by the look of it. And thank all the powers, no-one's decided it would be hugely amusing to cram well over fifty bloody candles on the thing, thus both posing a massive fire risk and firmly crushing the fragile remnants of his delusional belief that he's merely middle-aged and definitely not anywhere _near_ the depressing downward slide to retirement, prostate problems and Viagra. It _is_ good cake, though, as he very quickly discovers.

Good cake or not, Boyd feels compelled to grumble irritably, partly because that's what they all expect and partly because 'mid-fifties' sounds a damned sight worse to him than 'early-fifties'. He's genuinely touched, however, when he discovers they've eschewed the predictable novelty presents last year's shining example of inflatable farmyard livestock would be hard to top in any case and bought him a very fine set of silver cufflinks between them. Ones that he might actually conceivably deign to wear at some point.

Happy birthday, Detective Superintendent.

Oh, and there are several bottles of a reasonably decent sparkling wine neatly lined up on one of Frankie's work benches, too. Not exactly vintage champagne, but hey…

-oOo-

Why does he let them do this to him? Why? _Every_ bloody year.

Boyd's head is spinning he always has been far better with the grain than with the grape and he _still_ can't decide between his two remaining chief suspects. Both of them looked as guilty as sin the last time he actually had his eyes open, but that may very well simply be because somehow someone's managed to get far too much alcohol down his throat far too quickly, thus turning him from an intolerant tyrant into a damned great teddy bear. _Again_.

There will be stern words about this. Tomorrow, when he doesn't feel quite so much like simply lying down on Frankie's stainless steel autopsy table and going quietly to sleep for the duration.

"Come on, buddy," Spencer's weary voice says at his shoulder. "Let's get you a taxi."

"Oh, leave him alone, Spence," someone else Frankie? responds. "It's his birthday, for heaven's sake!"

Boyd opens his eyes. The whole lab still seems to be revolving gently, but thank God after a moment or two it steadies and comes to a gentle halt. He finds he's staring straight at Mel. At interesting bits of Mel he probably shouldn't be staring straight at. He looks up and asks her quizzically, "I'm very drunk, aren't I?"

She smiles at him, and he's faintly surprised at just how warm and fond that smile is. "Yes," she tells him. "Yes, you are."

"Thought so," he says amiably.

"Well done, Frankie," Spencer growls, tone acerbic. "You've successfully got him completely hammered. Now what…?"

-oOo-

He is, of course, incredibly stubborn. Always has been, always will be. Even when drunk. Especially when drunk. And all his team know exactly how obstinate he can be once he's made his mind up about something. Accordingly, they eventually shake their heads despairingly and reluctantly accede to his highly vocal demands to be simply left in peace to sleep the worst of the evening's mischief off on his office couch. It's a good theory, especially when viewed through an alcoholic haze, and for a while Boyd simply sprawls in an uncoordinated but relaxed stupor, vaguely listening to the sound of his colleagues rowdily departing for the night.

And then he remembers.

And clumsily checks his watch.

There's still time. Just barely, but there _is_ still time. If he's reading his watch correctly. Which isn't a foregone conclusion. He squints at the small hands again, frowning heavily at the effort. Reading glasses required. Can't be arsed, sorry. Okay, let's just assume that it really is pushing towards eleven, shall we? Feels about right.

At least he'll be able to blame the alcohol for his folly.

Roof? Roof. How to get to the roof? Oh. Oh, yeah.

Standing up isn't good, and he flails awkwardly with the sleeves of his jacket for several seconds as he manfully tries to struggle back into it. But, on balance, Boyd thinks he's a little more sober than he was an hour or so ago.

He's going to read them the riot act in the morning. All of them. Without exception.

Maybe he does initially stumble a bit, but he's actually walking now, successfully putting one foot in front of the other, and it's not… too bad.

-oOo-

Sobriety at least the slow and painful road back towards it is not all it's cracked up to be.

Neither is being fifty-whatever-the-hell-it-is with a perennially bad back, a head that's apparently stuffed with cotton wool and knees that currently seem to belong to a much older man. Not when there are several flights of stairs involved inevitably, the building's notoriously unpredictable lift is once again out of order.

_If you want your birthday kiss…_

It's _got_ to be a wind-up. Probably, the whole bloody lot of them will be up there waiting for him and laughing like a pack of immature hyenas. And once the hysteria dies down, he will sack them all and find himself a new team. One that treats him with a bit of respect and doesn't act like a bunch of unruly school kids given half a chance.

…_be on the roof at…_

Pausing halfway up the final flight of stairs, Boyd looks at his watch again, but it really doesn't help him much, even when he pulls his wrist further and further away from his face and squints really, really hard. Getting old is a bitch. In spades.

And he really wishes he knew for certain who actually left that damned envelope on his desk.

'Cos then he'd know whether to be putting some serious effort into finishing the arduous ascent or not.

-oOo-

Despite the hour, on the building's roof it's surprisingly warm, the great city tenaciously holding on to the summer's heat. Beyond the rusty steel guard rail, Boyd can see the familiar vista of streets and buildings, the night turning the striking panorama into a dizzying confusion of clashing and contradictory lights.

There's no bawdy welcoming committee of laughing-hyena colleagues. Good.

But he does seem to be alone on the roof.

So much for his promised birthday kiss.

It could be worse, though. It could be a _lot_ worse. Unquestionably.

_There's no fool like an old fool,_ Boyd tells himself wryly. _C'mon, Peter, what did you actually expect, eh…? _

He walks over to the guard rail and leans on it heavily, contemplatively gazing at the view. So many buildings, so many twinkling lights; so many different stories constantly being fashioned out there in the night.

The familiar footsteps he detects behind him are light and quick, but he's still not _absolutely_ sure until he catches a faint trace of her perfume carried on the warm night air. Then he knows. Oh, yes, he knows.

Boyd doesn't turn round, just says reproachfully, "You're lucky I made it all the way up here, the state you let them get me into."

"Well, I rather naïvely assumed you learnt your lesson last year. Besides, I had absolute faith in your stubbornness. And your curiosity."

He does turn to face her then. And regards her with a lazy and very deliberate sort of speculation.

Her expression is one of gentle amusement tempered by the tiniest suggestion of wariness. That wariness doesn't stop her reaching out a tentative hand to caress his cheek, just her cool fingertips running unhurriedly down his skin and then trailing delicately through the dense bristle of his beard. Boyd doesn't move; allows her the slow, cautious exploration. She leans into him, and though his heart is abruptly hammering in his chest, he placidly lets her do that too; lets her stretch up and carefully find his lips with her own. Then, and _only_ then, does he become a willing participant instead of a silent observer.

It means something, that tender, lingering kiss. To him, and Boyd believes to her.

When she draws back, all he says is, "Grace…"

She smiles, still amused, still gentle. "Happy birthday, Peter."

And suddenly it is. It really is. A very happy birthday.

And with any luck he'll still gleefully think so when he's finally stone-cold sober again. He's fairly sure he will.

Pretty damned certain, in fact.

_- the end -_


End file.
